a peek inside the poetic freak

It feels wonderful. Like having a new pair of eyes that see the world through colour-tinted retinas. Even the weather becomes pleasantly biased. Usually blazing sunshine feels just right, and gloomy rain becomes a reason to snuggle in blankets and daydream.

It feels magical. Every bad thing coming my way doesn’t look scary. I know I’ll get through. I know I’ll make it. I know I’ll be okay. I have more faith that everything will fall in place at the end of the day. I’m at peace.

It’s such a pure and precious thing. It’s sincere and comes from the heart. So intense, yet calming at the same time. Bubbly yet tranquil. Such a fragile thing, but so pleasant to carry around.

I never want to let this go.

And that’s exactly why it sucks so much. My gut feeling tells me this won’t last as long as I want it to. Reality brings too much pain for me to enjoy the full exquisiteness of it. My head says it’s okay to feel this way, but I have to brace myself because the shattering truth will come with an impact that’ll crush me into unrecoverable grains of ache, what once was, and what I hope could be.

As if what I’m feeling is an illusion that sucked me out of reality, while in reality, as abstract as it is, I can’t deny that it’s so. very. real.

I’m scared of it coming to an end. Still, since it’s bittersweet, it’ll probably end only if the former overwhelms the latter. I’m scared of that too, I guess. I want to enjoy this while it lasts. I wish it’ll last long enough.

Every beautiful thing reminds me of how fleeting they are. Bliss reminds me of how we look for happiness in the emptiest things, ways, or state that we’re in. It becomes a constant annoying each that you can’t reach and won’t go away. It ruins the feeling.

I’m ashamed at myself because I’m unable to muster up this kind of happy on my own and it has to come from an external factor. Then again, knowing social contact has exclusive perks is quite nice. And by “nice”, I mean both in the archaic and modern sense of the word.

Maybe this is just a waste of time; writing about this kind of thing. Then again, if I don’t, I won’t have an outlet to keep myself from the bad kind of insanity.